


tête-à-tête

by Checkerbox



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Here Lies the Abyss, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24988753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Checkerbox/pseuds/Checkerbox
Summary: Trevelyan and Corypheus have a chat.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	tête-à-tête

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes he is more Sethius than Corypheus, and vice versa.

Trevelyan isn’t sure how long he’s been laying on the floor.

There is drool coming from his mouth, as well as blood that appears to have had time to congeal. His arms are numb, tied behind his back with thin cord, and though his legs are unbound they feel as though they are being held down with heavy weights. Under him is cold stone, pressing hard into the edge of his hip.

It hurts, the pain increasing with awareness of his surroundings. That is all he’s capable of focusing on, anyway. Everything else is too hard. He is in a bare room. There is a single window off to the side, three bars breaking up the orange sunlight that streams in and falls onto a dark figure standing above him in a grim vigil.

“Hrngh?”

That’s all Trevelyan is capable of vocalizing at the moment.

The figure is a man wearing the rich blue of the wardens, his posture stiff and straight under his armor. Dark, mud-brown hair hangs over his face in messy strands, framing hollow cheeks that are familiar, in a dim back-of-the-crowd sort of way.

“You are more resilient than I expected. I had estimated you would be unconscious for at least another hour,” he murmurs.

With strength that cannot possibly come from such aged and withered limbs, the Grey Warden hoists him from the ground and throws him into a rickety wooden chair that very nearly cracks from the impact. Trevelyan slumps, and before he can regain his energy or his breath he is bound to the chair with more cord.

“Sethius Valyn,” he mumbles as he tried to force himself fully awake. “The Tevinter warden who knows how to stop the Calling.”

“I told Clarel that allowing that _rattus_ warden to escape would not be wise. That it would bring enemies down upon us. That she would spill our secrets.” There are rolls in his r’s, voice imbued with an ancient sophistication that is at once familiar and yet entirely foreign. “But Clarel is not as…biddable as the others, and so I am forced to endure these insignificant setbacks.”

“Are you going to kill me?” His tongue feels thick and the room is spinning a little, but this is important information to gather.

“No.” The ropes are pulled tight, and then Trevelyan is immobile. The warden continues to speak, lightly checking his work. “That would spoil diplomacy with the Inquisition. To throw them your broken corpse would be an act of war. And the wardens do not wish to spill that much blood… _needlessly_.”

“So you hold me hostage to keep them from mobilizing. Until you’re finished with your nefarious schemes.”

“Very good.”

Trevelyan resists the urge to say that his capture will make his inner circle, at the very least, all the more fervent about breaking in and rescuing him. He’s not sure the man will understand.

A harsh grating fills the air as the warden drags another chair across the ground, positioning it directly across from Trevelyan and sitting so that now the both of them are framed in the sunlight. It’s his first real look at his captor, and Trevelyan is stuck first by the fact that one of his eyes is a vibrant, bright purple, with the sclerae pitch-black.

“So this is the formidable Inquisitor,” he says to himself, a mocking note in his tone. “Your manner of dress is more impressive, but I still see only the whelp who could do nothing but run when it came time to face what he pretended to be.”

“What’s wrong with your eye?” Trevelyan asks.

Sethius blinks at him, and stands to go inspect his reflection in a polished shield leaning against the corner of the wall. A small hiss escapes his lips as he sees the imperfection, and then after a moment of concentration his normal eye simply…pops into its place.

When he goes to sit down again, there is a grim line to his mouth. “How tiresome.”

“ _Ohhh_ , how clever!” Trevelyan’s smile is slow and sleepy in the fogginess of his mind, but it is there as everything clicks into place nonetheless. “You set up Erimond as the obvious enemy, and then when everyone is trying to keep their eyes on him, you insinuate yourself as the trustworthy Warden. That’s something. I like that.”

“Talkative, aren’t you?” The monster sighs, glancing away. “Perhaps you do not realize how transparent it makes you.”

“Why am I here?” Trevelyan swallows, frowning, trying to clear his headache. “Correction, why are _you_ here? Why watch me yourself? Why not have another warden at the door, make sure I’m not going anywhere?”

“But that would be so impersonal, ‘Herald’.” The cruelty in his gaze is palpable, but there is no anger, not like there was before. “At Haven, I sought to merely remove you. To rid myself of a nuisance, impassioned by my…frustrations with your meddling. But I see you are more persistent than I had credited you to be, and so I would meet with my rival. One on one. Face to face.”

And though he is bound and injured and aching, Trevelyan can’t resist. “Well, now. My face, to your fake face.”

Sethius stands and strides forward, a single claw bursting free of a withered index finger and pressing threateningly against Trevelyan’s throat.

“How does it feel, living inside skin that’s too small for you?” he asks quietly, holding perfectly still.

“Gut-wrenching,” Corypheus snarls. “But I find ways to relieve my stress.”

There is silence between them long enough for the threat to be understood, for the power imbalance to sink in. Then Trevelyan’s insatiable need for knowledge kicks back into focus. “How do you do it? Is it some form of illusion magic or are you—condensing your body down to size somehow? Is it based on a real person?”

Sethius snorts in derision, sitting down once more and resuming his rigid posture, hands crossed. “That a Soporati such as yourself would ever think that you could understand the arts that I possess only shows your arrogance.”

“That you call it arrogance shows the gulf between our two cultures.” Trevelyan tries to slow his speech, tries to hide his growing alertness in a loll of his head, but it’s difficult. He’s very excited. “You come from a world of shadows, mystery, and gods, Corypheus. Mine is one of light, explanation, and men. You conduct. I question.”

For once, something other than contempt shows in Sethius’ expression. “You know the meaning of my title.”

“Ancient Tevene has become something of a hobby for me, as of late.” Mostly decoding the things that Dorian mumbles in his sleep, but of course Corypheus doesn’t need to know that. “I’ve always found the Magisters Sidereal to quite fascinating, but until recently I’ve never been able to access any credible literature on the subject.”

“It was another time,” Corypheus says dismissively. “Another life. I need not dwell on it. What I will become pales in comparison to what I was.”

And Trevelyan says without thinking, “I know precisely what you mean.”

They simply sit across from each other for a moment there, each sizing the other up. He thinks to himself that perhaps they are not as terribly different as people like to pretend—that this is the reason that they should be against each other now. Though Trevelyan has never sought to rule over anybody.

That would require caring too much.

“My worst trait is my curiosity, I think you will agree,” he says, trying to dispel his thoughts. “But I’m also sure it must be taxing to have so many intricate machinations that require such secrecy that no one knows how brilliant they are. You don’t have to tell me anything. I want to see if I have all this worked out. If you will indulge me.”

A single skeptical brow lifts on Sethius’ face. It is all the incentive that he needs.

“You don’t have the anchor, clearly. Even if I wanted to give it to you, it is stuck to my arm. So you need a new method to get at what you want—what you want being to tear open the Fade, yes?” Then he pauses. “--But you must have been planning this for a long time. How did you know your other tactics would fail?”

Sethius waves his hand. “A wise man does not put all of his hopes in a single working, not if he wishes to succeed. I am not pleased that I must resort to such crude measures, but anything worth doing requires sacrifice.”

“I’m not sure it qualifies as sacrifice if the people you are slaughtering en masse are your enemies.”

The corners of that ancient mouth twitch upward, and despite the situation he finds himself in, Trevelyan is pleased.

He continues, keeping his tone conversational, “So, you have the wardens perform a blood sacrifice ritual of a magnitude that has not been seen since the days of Ancient Tevinter, and poof! The Calling troubles them no more. …But that’s not what the ritual does.”

“And what does it do, he who brings light into darkness?” The tone is mocking, of course, but Trevelyan is overjoyed at the designation. “Have you and your team of inferior mages worked that one out?”

“Of course.” He draws it out, trying to insert at least a little dramatic flair. It feels good. As though he is getting one up on some sneering elite. “The ritual opens a gateway into the Fade.”

“Through which even mortals may enter.” Sethius stands once more, putting his mottled hands behind his back as he turns to the twilight window. “Only it will not be a mortal that enters that divine realm, that resplendent city of raw power and lyrium. It will be I.”

“The first time you entered the Fade it turned you into a monster,” Trevelyan says slowly. “Why do it again?”

“’Monster’ is a relative term.” Sethius turns to look at him once more, and this time there is a curious slant to his mouth. Like he isn’t completely sure of what he’s saying. “There are those who would call dragons monsters, and yet my people have always known them to be titans of great beauty and strength.”

“You’ve got me there.”

“It is true that this…form I have taken took time to adjust to. But there is an elegance to its crudeness. A design to its chaos. And I have come to appreciate what it represents. A new beginning borne of my actions and my power.” He idly scratches at the skin on his neck, and some of it flakes away. “The ceremonial vestments of the moment that was to be my greatest triumph, fused to my body for all time. There is poetry in it, is there not? --If it still repulses you so, consider it a transitory state. The chrysalis to my—”

“Butterfly?”

Corypheus chuckles softly as he begins to pace around him. There is nothing companionable in the sound, and it actually gives Trevelyan chills and a deep regret. “You joke because your mind cannot comprehend. The concept of a god that is present, that presents firm leadership for his people, it eludes you. Your culture has steeped too long in this fantasy of a Maker who leaves you to your wicked devices. Of impotent rulers who sit uselessly on their thrones.”

A claw trails over his shoulder to dance briefly on the back of his neck, prickling the short hairs there. Trevelyan feels goosebumps.

It’s only when the feeling dims that he responds, more pitifully than the words have ever before fallen from his lips, “I don’t believe in gods.”

“You will.”

“God,” he says more insistently, craning his neck just a little so that he has Sethius in his sight, that olive wrinkled skin and hard brow. “Is a word people use to cover up something that they don’t understand. It is the domain of those who have never sought to look deeper, or do not wish others to. It is a bid for control. And even if such a thing exists—why should I bow to it, just because it is powerful? Must a son always obey his father?”

The chuckle becomes a full-throated laugh, something that stills as Sethius moves back to his front, gives him an inspecting look that drags on into a full minute. Trevelyan chafes under the attention, but he forces himself not to fidget. Instead he twists his fingers at his sash to finesse out a tiny, thin knife kept in a small pocket sewn into the fabric, and starts cutting at his bonds.

“It is a familiar sentiment,” is what the monster says finally. “It seems laughable now that one should view the matter through such an academic lens, and yet I too thought as you did, once. But I believe there is a key difference between you and I.”

“Which is?”

“You would undo the coils of the world merely to see its inner workings. I…” He swallows in a great breath, and it is though he is taking some of reality into himself. “I would fix it.”

“Fix it?” Trevelyan stares at him in wonder. “What, so you actually think—you actually think _you’re the good guy?”_

“--I did not wake to this chaos and start slinging my fists about, though my first memories are of being _murdered by your kind_. No. I watched. I listened.”

He leans in close. Enough so that Trevelyan cannot resist the urge to edge away, just the slightest bit. He can see the pores in Sethius’ skin. He can see the slightest tinges of decay about the scalp. Whatever Corypheus has done to keep this body in use, it does not last forever. And though he is fascinated with corpses, he still has a healthy disgust for putrefaction.

“If your way of ‘fixing’ the world is to throw it into chaos, I would suggest watching and listening a little bit longer. You’ve shorted yourself on your lessons,” he remarks, trying to remain blithe even as his hackles raise.

Sethius doesn’t even blink. “What would you call it, to wake to a world that mistakes pleasantries and gold for peace? A world that has traded its devotion for petty displays of piety? A world that smothers the potential of its betters under the yoke of slavery for mere mistakes of their birth?”

“Ah, you’re talking about Calperni—”

Rough, sharp fingers grip his chin, and Trevelyan’s mind suddenly shuts down from fear.

“The very corruption that allows me to take power is what I would see expunged.” Corypheus’ breath is hot, and smells of rust. There is a singing behind his voice, a chorus that bolsters his every word, a song that is sweet and just barely tickles the insides of his brain. It is a horrible, horrible sound, and though he tries to squirm away he cannot escape. He cannot look away. “No more Qunari beast men beating against Tevinter’s shores. No more elven rebellions, and no more useless prattling knights who slaughter them for sport. I would see a world where every drop of blood spilt is put toward constructive purpose instead of senseless squabbling in the streets. Where prosperity does not make soldiers fat and lazy, and noblemen do not sit on thrones of gold as their people starve.”

The thin knife rests in Trevelyan’s hand as the chair creaks, bonds only a quarter cut, digging into the fabric of his gloves. He has no purchase from which to pull away. A thin giggling sound begins to fill the air, and it’s only after some consideration that he is able to determine that the hitching laughter is his.

“This is what the world needs,” Corypheus sneers, an ugly smile curving his lips as his grip tightens. He puts another claw just under Trevelyan’s eye and brings his feeble struggling to a halt. “A firm, guiding hand. Consequences that are not merely spoken of as Chantry children’s tales. I believe you have a saying, in this Trade tongue. ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child’. I find it most apt. It will not be a clean transition, I grant you. But as _my_ people used to say, there can be no victory without sacrifice. When I am done there will be no nation that I do not command, no person whose heart does not belong to me.”

Trevelyan’s very core is shaking, his insides screaming, though he remains still. The beast inside him that hungers to kill is drowned by the singing, the incessant, beautiful roar of blighted music. All he’s able to do is laugh, high and frightened and humiliating, and Corypheus waits patiently through the noise, awash in calm.

“I will make this world my slave.” Those awful eyes are his, the filmy purple cataract pupil of the black eye matched with an iris made of fire in the other. There is malice inside them, malice that delights in itself, that revels in it, and it is worse than Haven because it is close and intimate and _it can see inside him._ “And when I am done it will thank me.”

“Th-the-th-the—” His lips and tongue are clumsy, constrained by the hand on his jaw and the shivering of his body. “The ha-half you don’t des-destroy.”

“That,” Corypheus says, finally, mercifully letting go, “Is the privilege of a god.” He stands up straight, and for a moment as he does his silhouette against the dying light is taller and more twisted than the mortal body he is wearing.

Then he is only Sethius again.

“I think this conversation is over.” There is a smirk on his lips, and it is clear he’s gotten what he was after. He leaves the head of the Inquisition trembling in that chair, robes billowing in his wake. The door slams shut.

Trevelyan counts the seconds until the shaking stops, counts them even as they build up to minutes. He waits until even the memory of the song is gone. Then he begins to cut at his bonds again.

“One, two, three.”

He realizes that he is speaking quietly for fear of being heard, and lets out a loud bark that echoes off the walls.

“Darkspawn. –Just a darkspawn.” The moment his wrists are free he winces, feeling the blood shoot through his veins once more. His leg pounds against the stone wildly for a moment. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. God darkspawn. Godspawn.” More high, nervous giggling.

It was easy, before, to look away from the sheer scope of what was at stake. To make it abstract, and far away.

He has to find some way around it, now.

Goals. Life is a series of goals.

“Step one,” he mutters, re-purposing the small, thin blade to use against the lock on his prison. “Find my friends. Step two: stop the wardens.”

The door swings open easily, and he allows himself a grin full of jagged teeth.

“Step three: Kill God. And anyone who dresses like Him.”

It will have to be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I really liked Corypheus in Legacy, and his depiction in Inquisition by comparison left a great deal to be desired. I also did not like the logistics of how he took over the wardens in Here Lies the Abyss. I don’t claim to have created a better scenario, but it’s one I like better.
> 
> Been working on another fic that I hope to be able to start posting soon-ish, but I want it to be a certain level of completeness before I start posting it and it’s…well, it’s long, and my focus is scattered, so it’s taking a while.


End file.
